Gauntlet (47 page)

A
T TTIC, the members of the team were working 24 hours a day. It was 2AM, and most of them were still at their desks, tracking down whatever information they could find. Before long, Turbee made the next break in the case. He was happy to let Dan continue to fret and foam about the apparent impending nuclear attack on an American port city. For his part, Turbee was hot on the Semtex chase. While Wharfdog Charlie was clearly lacking in presentation, and likely intelligence, he had been very clear about some of the technical aspects of what he had seen of the submarine-to-truck reload. The curious scissors lift systems and the self-loading pallets he had described sounded similar to those they’d seen in the pictures of the ship-to-ship transfer near the Maldives. It had the same feel. For Turbee, that was enough. He hacked his way into the RCMP internal communication system and began searching.

Before long he found the electronic residue of Izzy’s speeding ticket. A dirty white box van. Two occupants, apparently of central Asian descent. And a license plate that began with the letters DGO. It was a hit.

“Look at that, George,” said Turbee to his neighbor. “Same truck. Has to be. Heading east from Kamloops, moving toward the Rockies on Highway 1. Put the whole track, from Stewart to the speeding ticket, on the Atlas Screen. Let’s see where they’re going.”

Turbee lowered the lights a bit (Johnson was still trying to figure out how he did that) and pointed to the map, where George had plotted the coordinates he’d asked for. “A few hundred miles from the border, Dan,” he said. “That’s where it was at four this afternoon. I doubt very much that they’d go through all this trouble to hit a Canadian target. Nothing truly valuable or important up there in any event. They’re coming to the States. They have a route. They have a plan. We just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Dan grumbled and telephoned Admiral Jackson.

A
T ROUGHLY THE SAME TIME, on the other side of the world, Richard and Jennifer were walking across a narrow cobblestone street toward the small pipe store that Mahari had entered. The Peshawar marketplace was rich in memories for Richard. Every fragrance, every image and sound, released another swarm of childhood experiences. Memories of parents. Memories of Zak. Memories that were bittersweet. He was trying to keep the memories of their deaths at bay. Now wasn’t the time for an emotional breakdown. But the longer they stayed in the atmosphere, the more difficult it became. The gnawing pain in his forehead was reaching a crescendo, and that wasn’t helping matters. He was slipping, mentally, and the pressure in his head was building. He didn’t think it would be long before the emotional problem became physical as well. The sooner they completed this mission, the better.

They stopped momentarily outside the little shop, and then stepped inside. Richard took off his sunglasses and blinked his eyes, trying to accustom them to the dim room. Jennifer picked up some of the ornately carved hardwood and bronze pipes, using the action to disguise her eyes, which were feverishly scanning the small shop. Richard cautiously stepped further into the dusky interior, every bit as alert as Jennifer. There was a faint smell of opium and hashish in the air.

When no one came to the counter, Jennifer put the pipes down and stepped behind it, parting the hanging bead curtain that separated the main shop area from a smaller back room. In the back room, a young man looked up from a computer keyboard, startled at their sudden appearance. Both Jennifer and Richard recognized him immediately.

“What do you want?” Mahari asked.

“We would like to buy some pipes,” Jennifer replied. “Nice carved wooden pipes. What do they cost?”

Mahari got up from his small workstation. “Yes, my name is Mahari. Let me help you. Let me show you our best.” He had already identified both as foreigners, regardless of the skillful attempt at disguise. Mahari had grown up in Peshawar, and the pipe shop they were in was owned by his uncle, an old and faithful acquaintance of Yousseff. He knew what kind of people came into the shop, and this man and woman didn’t fit.

As the reporter got up and entered the display area, Richard, in one smooth motion, slipped by him and sat down at the keyboard. It was a new computer, equipped with Windows. In an instant he had opened the “Files” menu, and before Mahari could protest, had clicked on the “Open” option.

Mahari, hearing the clicking of the keyboard, darted toward Richard, his hands outstretched. “Excuse me sir. You cannot do that. Get off the computer now or I will call the police.”

Jennifer pulled out her gun. “Actually, we are the police. The real police. The police who want to prevent another terrorist attack. Sit down or I’ll blow your balls off.”

Mahari suddenly grew unsure of himself. He seemed ready to fight, but hesitant over whether he really wanted to.

“Don’t even think about it, camel shit,” said Richard, as he pulled out his gun. “Sit down on the floor right there, and we may let you live.” Richard motioned to the corner of the back room with his gun.

As Mahari seated himself, Richard looked over the file list that he had activated. It was an amazingly long list. One entry seemed interesting. It contained the single word, “Messages.” Richard clicked on it. Six sub-files appeared. “Message One,” then “Message Two,” running all the way down to “Message Six.”

“Well, what do we have here, Mahari? These wouldn’t be the Emir messages that Al Jazeera has been broadcasting, and is going to broadcast in the next few days, would they?” asked Richard.

Mahari said nothing, but Jennifer could swear that he was smirking at them both. “Richard, just go to the last message. Let’s see where this nonsense ends.”

Mahari was in fact gloating to himself. In his eagerness, Richard had not seen the knee switch that Mahari had activated. He didn’t realize that virtually the entire bazaar was controlled by Pashtun drug smugglers. Mahari played a key role in a complex mission, and was closely protected and watched as he delivered the messages, one by one, to Al Jazeera. If it weren’t for Richard’s deteriorating condition, he would have immediately grasped the complexity of the situation.

Instead, Richard casually clicked on the final message, ignoring the reporter. The media file loaded itself and began to play. It took all of three minutes. Richard and Jennifer watched and listened to it in rapt fascination and horror, silent for a few seconds after the last word had been uttered.

Finally Richard roused himself into action. “Holy shit, Jen. Call the Embassy right now. We know where this thing is going, and we may still be in time to stop it. This is worse, much worse, that we thought. Call them now.”

Jennifer touched the speed dial on her cell phone with shaking fingers, ringing through to the American Embassy. She reached Buckingham’s personal secretary. “Lauralee, get me Michael now,” she said, her voice shaking. She heard Buckingham’s rough voice in the background. “Give me a minute,” she heard him say.

Precious seconds ticked by. Finally she heard Buckingham shuffle toward the phone. “Buckingham,” he said.

“Mike,” breathed Jennifer. “We’ve seen the last message. The sixth message. We know the target.”

That was as far as she got before an enormous hand pulled the flip phone from her hands. In a second it was twisted into two pieces. The remnants were thrown onto the floor of the shop. Richard, who was still staring at the computer, heard Jennifer gasp, and half rose from the computer table, turning and receiving a vicious kick to the head for his trouble. Pain spidered through his skull, and he sank to his knees. Four other people came in, through both the back door and the beaded curtain.

Richard was thrown to the floor and brutally handcuffed, with his hands in front of him. The attackers kicked him a few more times, in both his head and ribs. He gasped in pain, feeling reality begin to fade away in a pink and frothy haze. He heard the click of another set of handcuffs, then felt a constriction around his hands as he and Jennifer were imprisoned in a connected set of manacles.

“I’d kill you both now, but I need a little bit of information from you. I hope you don’t mind,” one of the men said in heavily accented English. “It’ll only take an hour or two, I can assure you. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I will.” He motioned to his men. “Take them both back to the van. Go to the Inzar Ghar fortress. Put them in one of the basement cells. I’ll let you play with them after I’m done.”

Having grown up in Islamabad, Richard had heard the stories about Inzar Ghar, and felt his blood run cold. He looked groggily over at Jennifer. Her face was white as a sheet, and blood ran freely from her nose and one ear. He was on the verge of saying something when he received another blow to the head and, in a shattering of pain and black spots, lost consciousness.

W
HAT TO DO, what to do...” Baxter was now talking to himself. He played the call back several times. There was some significant information there. “The sixth message...” They had only received four so far. What did the other two say?

He copied the sound file to his computer and then sent an email to Big Jack, the executive directors of most other Intelligence Agencies, the SECDEF (new at his job, since his predecessor hadn’t survived the
Haramosh Star
affair), and Dan Alexander and his crew at TTIC.

There was a general chorus of exclamations up and down the Intelligence Community chain, as the email bounced from office to office. This couldn’t be good.

“Any more of this bullshit,” the President had said, “and we’ll be declaring war.”

I
NDY COULD BARELY KEEP HIS RIOTING NERVES under control. He had tried deep breathing exercises, meditation, and prayer. Nothing worked. His anxiety was coming over him in waves. He wanted to scream with fear and anger. He was imprisoned, but the escape route was right in front of him. A little ventilation tunnel, which, within 20 feet, would take him to freedom. He had gone as far as sticking his arms and head into the tunnel, but that was the extent of it. At that point the terror had rolled over him and he’d had to scramble back into the money room. Imprisoned in the dungeon of his own making, he had been handed the key to his freedom but didn’t have the strength to use it. Even Catherine had been fearful, and she didn’t have the psychological obstructions that he did. He could see the route. Any person could. But he had to actually take it. Walking the walk or, in this case, crawling the crawl, was required. Talking the talk, as usual, accomplished little. Though he realized the true nature of his imprisonment, he was in the dark when it came to what was going on outside the mine. Had he known what was going on in the rest of the world, and how the information he held could arrest the development of the situation, he might have been able to do it.

He reached for the water Catherine had brought him and took a long, satisfying gulp. He tried again to enter the ventilation shaft, and got as far as his hips before the fear became too great. He swore silently to himself. Surely someone of his training and intelligence could gather the mental strength to overcome a little thing like fear of enclosed spaces. Then another wave of anxiety rushed over him, so intense that he became nauseated, and his resolution vanished. He was never going to get out of here. Never. Where was Catherine? Had they found her? Killed her? What if no one other than he and Catherine knew the true location of Devil’s Anvil? What if the Fernie RCMP didn’t know? What if, by the time any massive manhunt found him, he had died of dehydration? What if the thugs dynamited the tunnel? Time and again his mind drifted back to that incident, 20 years earlier in the Fraser Valley... the gunshots, the trench, the grave, the searing pain and panic, his lungs bursting for air. Not again. Please, God, not again.

I
NSPECTOR BLACKMAN and Corporal McCloud, from the Heather Street complex, had arrived in Fernie via the RCMP chopper. They were very concerned about the disappearance of Indy and Catherine. “Not like either of them to do that,” they said. Both Blackman and McCloud had worked with Indy for years. Both knew that Indy and Catherine had planned to go to some kind of mine near the Akamina. Both were concerned when neither had called in. The Fernie detachment had been called and told to wait for Blackman and McCloud, as the RCMP heli-service would be bringing them to the Kootenays. Constables Brink and Koopman, both local officers who worked on a daily basis with Catherine, were waiting for them. They were equally concerned about their friend’s disappearance, and were happy to be doing something about it.

As soon as the helicopter landed, the four of them headed south toward the Akamina-Kishinina and Dennis Lestage’s trailer. The Lestages and the Halletts were trouble, to be sure. Brink and Koopman knew the ill-fated story of Benny Hallett, his destroyed truck, and the shattered knee. They were suspicious of what might have happened. All were aware of the contents of Indy’s affidavits, sworn the week before. Inspector Inderjit Singh was a legend within the Force — they all felt flattered at an opportunity to help him.

They arrived at the trailer by 8PM, and kicked an already-sleeping Dennis out of bed.

“Wake up, my friend. We have two missing cops, and I think you know something about it,” barked Koopman as they entered the bedroom. The trailer had been unlocked, and they knew that Indy had a warrant, so they figured they were probably OK. Even if they weren’t, their concern was for the fate of two members of the Force, not for fine details about the admissibility of evidence in a courtroom.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” mumbled Dennis, more fearful of Leon than of cops or any sentence a judge could pronounce.

“Older cop, maybe 50, and a lady, maybe 30. You haven’t seen them?” asked Constable Brink.

“Nope. Haven’t seen them. No sir. Not here. Definitely no.”

“Corporal Gray was telling us that there’s a mine out here. Devil’s Anvil, she said. Ever heard of that?” asked Koopman.

“Mine? Devil’s Asshole? Nope. Never heard of it. No sir,” replied Dennis.

“He’s lying,” said Blackman. He had seen his share of police questioning and could spot the signs. Not that it was hard. Dennis looked to have the IQ of a rock. Not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, and no good at lying, either.

“Aw, come on, Blackman. Maybe he’s just got naturally shifty eyes,” responded McCloud.

“Which way is south?” asked Blackman.

“That way,” said Koopman, leading them out of the trailer and pointing toward a large granite bluff directly behind the home. There was a small, overgrown trail that headed in that direction.

“I think that’s where we’re heading,” said Brink. “Cuff him, Koopman,” he told his partner.

“Cuff me? What the hell for? I ain’t done nothing!” protested Dennis.

“Oh, relax,” said Koopman. “We’ll think of something.”

Blackman had to smile. He admired the style of his colleagues. These boys were doing it right.

“Where’s the trail go, Dennis?” asked Koopman.

“Don’t know,” replied the disconsolate Dennis. Leon was going to kill him, for sure. This was very bad. They would find the two cops, and the millions of dollars in drugs and money. Leon would kill him slowly, brother or not, just for the pleasure of doing it. He started sweating just thinking about it.

“Yeah, right,” said Brink. “You live here and you don’t know where the trail goes. Come on guys,” he said, motioning to the other three. “Let’s go exploring.”

Koopman pulled Dennis stumbling along behind them. It didn’t take them long to find the mine. A white five-ton box van was parked by the entrance.

“Whose truck, Dennis?” asked Koopman.

“Truck?”

“Yes, dumb nuts. Whose truck?”

“Never seen it before, sir. Never. Don’t know how it got here,” responded Dennis.

“Koop,” said Constable Brink, “why don’t you run the plates through the Sat-phone. Let’s see what pops up.” The RCMP had recently implemented a system whereby information could be transmitted and retrieved via a secured satellite link. The research only took a few seconds.

“Rental vehicle, Brink,” said Koopman. “Rented in Prince George. Driver had a speeding ticket last night east of Kamloops. Some guy by the name of Izzy al Din. D’ya know who that might be, Dennis?”

“Not a clue. Never heard of him.”

“I see. Well this looks like a mine entrance to me, Dennis,” said Koopman, turning to look at the opening in the mountain. “Where does it go?”

“I have no clue. Never seen it before. Nope, not me. No clue,” whined an ever more despondent Dennis Lestage.

“Can you turn on the lights, Dennis?” asked Koopman.

Reluctantly, and with great lethargy, Dennis stumbled over and turned on the generator. Benny’s blown out knee would be nothing compared to what would happen to him. Not even jails would be safe. Leon was a Hell’s Angel, and they practically ran the jails. He was doomed. Doomed.

He never stopped to think that by turning on the generator, he’d directly contradicted his claim of ignorance. The officers found this extremely amusing. Laughing to themselves, they entered the mine, dragging Dennis.

B
EHIND THEM, hidden around a bend in the trail, a man with piercing blue eyes watched. Leon had seen the cop cars in the driveway when he arrived, and had waited until the officers dragged Dennis out of the trailer and down the path before sneaking onto his property. He’d already been into the trailer, to check for anything that might lead them to his Vancouver address. He didn’t mind letting Dennis take the fall for what they found here, but he didn’t want to be connected in any way. Now he watched them enter the mine, his thoughts racing. They would probably find the cops Dennis had imprisoned there, along with the drugs and the money. This operation was obviously finished. All that time and money, down the drain. Along with the mine itself. He grimaced. He was losing more than he cared to count. But Joseph’s shipment should have already come through, and that meant he would have $10 million waiting for him in the bank in the Caymans. Maybe after the cops left, as they inevitably would, he could sneak into the mine and get some of the cash out. Added to the funds he’d already deposited, it should be enough to see him through until he could come up with something else.

He turned and hurried away, leaving Dennis to his fate with the RCMP.

I
T TOOK AN HOUR, as they received no assistance from the ever-uncooperative Dennis, but the men from the Force eventually made it to the central area, and the hydraulic elevator. Dennis required a little more coaxing before he showed them how to use the elevator. Koopman was happy to supply the motivation. It took another half hour to find the storeroom area, with its four separate doors.

“Shush, guys, I hear something,” said McCloud. They all stopped, feeling hot and compressed in the narrow tunnel. “There it is again,” he said, walking toward one of the doors. “That door.”

Koopman yelled loudly. “Catherine! Indy! Is that you?”

To everyone’s surprise, Indy’s voice came echoing back from inside the room. “Yes! Let me out of this damn dungeon!”

Koopman reached for the door and saw the large lock on it. “Got a key, Dennis?” he asked.

“I know nothing,” said Dennis. “Didn’t know any of this was here. Honest, eh?”

“Stand back Indy!” Koopman shouted. “I’m going to shoot out the lock. Everybody, get back. In this kind of situation things could ricochet all over the place.”

The explosive noise from Koopman’s firearm was amplified in the small space. A few small rocks fell out of the low dirt ceiling. Koopman wondered nervously, and belatedly, if the intensity of the sound could cause a cave-in. A few more chunks of rock were dislodged, but nothing else happened. The bullet shattered the lock, and a black and disheveled looking Indy almost fell out of the room.

“Am I ever glad you people came by! It’s about time! Need air. I’ve got to get air.” He almost ran down the tunnel toward the American entrance. He threw open the mine doors and breathed deeply of the pure Flathead Mountain air. He wasn’t sure he could go back into the tunnel, even to get to the Canadian side.

Brink and Koopman watched Indy go. “Guess he’s been there for a while,” said Brink smartly.

Blackman, meanwhile, was peeking around the door into the room that had been Indy’s prison. “Holy smokes, guys, look at this.”

The others looked around the door at the mountains of cash stacked up against the walls of the room. “Oh my God. There’s got to be a couple million dollars here,” said McCloud.

Koopman was already opening the other doors. “You all had better come and look at what else we have,” he said.

They took turns looking behind the other doors. Drugs. American money. Canadian money. More drugs. Marijuana. Cocaine. Heroin.

“Jesus, I guess Indy was right. He and Catherine found the mother lode, all right,” said Koopman. “This has got to be one of the biggest drug busts in Canadian history. It’s incredible.”

“Knew nothing about this, eh Dennis?” asked Brink.

“Nope. Nothing at all. Didn’t know this was back here,” he said. “I just live in the trailer. I don’t know nothing.” Blackman rolled his eyes and smirked at McCloud. They all said that.

“Koop, you should go and get Indy,” said Brink. “We’ve got to figure out what to do here. This completely blows me away.”

Koopman and Blackman walked toward the American entrance. They tried hard not to laugh at the sight of the 50-year-old Inspector Inderjit Singh, face blackened by coal dust, lying flat on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled, staring at the sky, watching the stars come out.

“How long were you locked up, Indy?” asked Koopman.

“More than 36 hours by my count. And I’m claustrophobic. I almost went nuts in there,” he replied.

“Nutser,” corrected Koopman. “Where’s Catherine?”

Indy sat up abruptly, looking around. “Oh damn. I was in such a hurry to get out of there that I forgot about her,” he said. “We’ve got a bigger problem than just drugs, guys.”

“What could be bigger than drugs? This is a major Canada/US drug corridor. I’m sure huge amounts of heroin, cocaine, marijuana, and money have been flowing back and forth through this hole for years. And God knows what else. This is going to make international headlines,” said Koopman.

“But Catherine’s disappeared,” Indy said. “I don’t see her around here. I’m sure she followed the drug smugglers out this end of Devil’s Anvil. Maybe she hooked a ride with them, somehow.”

Brink hadn’t been listening to what Indy said. “How big a load came through here, Indy?” he asked.

“Huge. Absolutely huge. It took a total of four trips with that trolley they have in there. Catherine went out between the second and third loads, to have a look around. She came back and told me that it was a large van, or small truck, or something. She said she was going to get the plates and details, but she didn’t come back after that. God, I hope those guys didn’t find her.”

“How big is huge, Indy?” Brink pressed.

“A couple of tons, at least,” Indy responded. “At least. Millions of dollars, street value. Tens of millions. There was something unusual about it, guys. And I’m not only talking about the size of the shipment.”

“What was that, Indy?”

“The way it was wrapped. Catherine said that it was divided into individual bricks, and that each brick was wrapped in red cellophane. I’ve spent my share of time working narcotics, and I’ve never heard of that before.”

“Me either,” responded Blackman.

“Indy, how is it that she got out and you didn’t?” asked Koopman, scratching his head.

“There’s a tiny little ventilation tunnel between rooms,” Indy replied, trying to wipe the coal dust from his face with his wrinkled and torn shirt. “She was able to get out through that. I just... uhh... I just couldn’t get through it. But she came back and told me about what was going on outside. She was pretty excited by it all. She went back out again, and didn’t come back after that. If she’s not here now, she must have somehow hitched a ride. She told me that there were tarps and coolers in the back of the truck with the drugs, and gave me this water. She may have got in behind the tarps somehow. At least I’m hoping that’s what happened.”